The Dearest Rose
by Merry Faerie
Summary: Nevan, the Viscount Stafford, has his life turned upside down by the appearance of a young runaway one night. And from there will commence a battle of wills--and of the heart. Nephrite/Makoto and Ami/Zoi. Set in the Regency era
1. One: Rose Tree

_Hello all! Yes, I have started yet another story! As if I don't have any other ones to consider...:D_

_Anyway, this is based in the Regency era in London, England (early 1800's, after the Napoleonic Wars). If you've read Austen or Georgette Heyer's work, you'll get an idea of what I'm going for. This focuses on the Nephrite/Makoto pairing though the other Senshi and Shitennou will be included as well. This takes place a couple of months after my one-shot _Of Good Ton_, so I'd recommend reading that first, though you definitely don't have to in order to know what's going on. Well, enjoy, and please, please review!_

Characters (in this chapter)

Nevan, Viscount Stafford- Nephrite

Anne Mariner- Ami Mizuno

Zain, Baron of Latham [but called Lord Latham]- Zoisite

Raye-...Raye XD Raye Hinston to be more precise

***

_Dear rose without a thorn,  
Thy bud's the babe unborn:  
First streak of a new morn._  
--Robert Browning--

***

Women. Bah humbug.

"At least have the courtesy to lower your voice," whispered his companion.

Viscount Stafford straightened, then turned to the young woman who'd spread her cream-colored muslin skirts out on the grass to sit beside him. Laying aside the book she'd brought along to their picnic, she leveled her deep blue eyes at him. Anne's softly spoken words had been stern, but the Viscount caught the amused glint in those same enchanting eyes.

"Did I say that out loud?" he asked innocently.

Nevan's childhood friend shook her head in despair. "Nevan," Anne said, her voice kept low but light as a bell, "why do you continuously blame the poor girls for not living up to your expectations?"

"Oh, I like that!" he exclaimed, arms thrown up indignantly. "Is it too much to ask that the girl I propose to refrains from throwing a vase at me?" He frowningly looked across the park. The vase-thrower, a raven-haired woman by the name of Raye Hinston, sat obliviously on a blanket, finishing her picnic luncheon. At twenty, she had garnered the reputation of being both one of the most sought-after and aloof of the young women of Quality. Beside her sat Zain--also known as Lord Latham--who, as everyone who was anyone knew, was pining after Miss Anne Mariner. My lord frowned over at Nevan, jealousy written clearly on his fair features. He immediately tried to engage Miss Hinston in a desperation conversation. Unfortunately, Miss Hinston was never encouraging to those unfortunate enough to be of the opposite sex.

"Did you _have_ to invite her to come with us?" Nevan asked.

"Shush. Raye happens to be my dear friend. Besides, your pride shouldn't _still_ be wounded. Raye's rejection of you is old news compared to the last few..."

Nevan hastily interrupted: "Yes well, time does not heal all wounds." He indicated the faint scar on his jaw, a pout nearly coming to his lips. He moved aside a rich brown curl so Anne could inspect the practically unnoticeable discoloration.

"You fibber--I'll wager ten to one that's from when you raced Jim around the city (backwards) on your new horse."

"He had the gall to say that that mare wasn't fit to pull a baby carriage! The nerve," he muttered.

"So naturally you _had_ to tear through London like a madman and end by hitting a lamp post."

"Stupid place to put a lamp post--on the side of the street."

"You're lucky Missy's still fit enough to pull a baby carriage." Anne stood to her full height of five foot one to pet Nevan's beautiful grey mare.

Nevan stood to rest an arm on his horse's side. He leaned over Anne, close enough to feel the loose strands of her blue-black hair that had danced out of their bun, and said in his deep voice, "If you hadn't rejected my proposal, there might soon be a little one for Missy to be pulling in that carriage."

Anne flushed bright pink but managed to look Nevan full in the face. "That is a grossly inappropriate thing to say or even to bring up, and you know it."

Nevan shrugged, but pulled back since he knew without looking that his golden-haired friend was shooting him a death glare. He inwardly shuddered at the thought of Zain knowing what had taken place in Anne's carriage a few months back. Drunk as per usual that night, Nevan had welcomed a ride home from Anne, only to fasten on the idea that he needed a wife. Anne seemed the only halfway decent, practical girl he genuinely liked and in Nevan's intoxicated state...well, Anne had been hard put to stave off the proposal.

"Inappropriate?" he queried. "Wasn't it you who said you'd never been kissed like that before?"

"Nevan!"

He chuckled this time, aware of how uncomfortable he was making her feel. She'd removed her straw, ribboned hat and began fanning her face as if to cool her blush away. "You know very well I never said that. Don't pretend you're not glad I turned you down."

Nevan made as if to protest, but Anne meet him with a no-nonsense look and he stopped himself from denying it. "Still, it was most unhandsome of you to reject me," he said sulkily.

Anne couldn't help laughing. "If you'd just bide your time..."

"Easy for you to say when Zain's making a cake out of himself over you. The fellow doesn't seem to talk of anything but you; seems to think your the cat's meow and the dog's bark." He shook his head in an uncomprehending way that was more suited to a brother than a rejected lover.

Anne wisely ignored all this. "And as a matter of fact," she said in an innocent tone, "I believe it was _you_ who said something about _my_ delightful kisses."

"Careful, brat, or your Zain will be hearing all the details of that 'chat' in the carriage."

In unison, they turned to look at Zain, who'd decided that the conversation had gotten much too cozy. He marched up to the pair, cleared his throat very loudly and said: "Miss Mariner, would you take a turn around the park with me? Please," he added, his tone becoming suddenly so earnest and sincere her heart twinged.

Anne blushed again, this time in pure pleasure, and nodded.

Nevan watched them go, then looked across at Raye. She deliberately turned away to sketch some invisible bird that had apparently perched in a nearby tree.

The Viscount scowled. _What _was the use of being wealthy, handsome, and titled to boot if no woman would give him the time of day?

***

Only the flames from the kerosene lamps kept Nevan from stumbling into every solid object in the vicinity. Clumsily, he made his way down the slippery, darkened London street, batting his cane from time to time. He wound along to his home in Grosvenor Square thinking to himself that he'd had a marvelous time at the club. Or had it been a ball? Perhaps a card party at Zain's lodgings?

"Th'only logical solution's that it was all three," he concluded aloud. Thinking that the night was entirely too free of song and dance, his fine bass voice suddenly rang out--"Sing old ROOOOSE and BURN the bellows! " into the (thankfully) empty streets.

It was, overall—decided the butler who opened the door as Nevan drew near—a typical, rather dull, Tuesday night.

"_Pssst_."

Nevan paused before reaching the doorstep, then looked up and over his shoulder. Had that tree just hissed at him?

Hm. How very odd.

"I'll be along in a minute Mr. Godfrey. If you could just put away my things," he said, handing his hat and dove grey greatcoat to his butler through the doorway. "Do go off to bed my good man."

"Sir, shall I have Mr. Thompson stay up to help undress you?"

"Goodness no! He hasn't earned that right quite yet!" exclaimed Nevan. He paused thoughtfully: "Though I'm not quite sure what male I know has...or whether I want him to..."

"Good night, sir," was his butler's icy reply, before retreating to the servant's wing of the house. As was usual when called to the door past midnight, he began making plans to go home to mummy's. Luckily for the state of the Viscount Stafford's household, he held back the impulse to pack immediately, deciding to wait till breakfast to make the final decision.

Now left alone, the Viscount hurried to cross the cobbled road to the garden square and the tree that had presumably spoken to him. "Psst," the Viscount hissed back at the tree. He drew close enough to it to see that in the boughs dangled a pair of long trouser-clad legs. "Who're you?"

"Shh," the stranger whispered back.

"I wish you would stop shushing me. I've had quite enough of that from every woman of my acquaintance today."

The tree stranger made a sound of sympathy. "It's terrible when all those mother types start nagging you, isn't it?"

"It is! But the worst are the young marriageable ladies...especially those who've known you since you were a dreadful little boy."

"And are you _still_ dreadful?" asked the youth in curiosity.

"Certainly not! Who are you?" he asked as the person in the tree laughed.

There was no response for a moment. Then: "_Is_ that the Viscount Stafford's house across the street there? 42 Grosvenor?"

"I hope so, or else I'm even more drunk than I thought," Nevan frankly replied.

Another pause.

The Viscount broke the silence. "I beg your pardon, but if you don't mind my asking: who are you and what the devil are you doing in that tree?"

"I--It's rather difficult to--"

"Of course, if you're one of those who _enjoys_ living in trees, I won't deny you that pleasure," Nevan assured the stranger. "Isn't it uncomfortable?"

"What?"

"Living in trees?"

"I _don't_ live in trees!" came the exasperated answer.

By this time Nevan was barely listening. "I suppose finding food would be easier--just pluck and tuck in--but as for sleeping, with all that bark and those leaves scratching at--"

"Excuse me, but _who_ are _you_?" interrupted the young man.

Nevan didn't answer immediately. Then..."Hang on, I asked you first."

"I'd rather not tell you before you tell me."

Reasonably, Nevan answered: "_I _can't very well tell you who you are since you haven't told me yourself!...who you are, that is."

"For heaven's sake!" The tree's occupant suddenly, and very easily, leapt down so the Viscount Stafford could more clearly see him. The youth wore an abominably tied white cravat, a close-fitting hat, and a dusty shirt. Equally dusty brown trousers and dark boots covered long, and obviously graceful, legs. The Viscount looked the stranger square in the face, but in the dim lamplight could only detect rather feminine features and large eyes.

"Tired of life among the squirrels?" he asked the boy sympathetically.

The young stranger countered with a different question. "Are you related to Viscount Stafford? I gather that you live in his house."

Nevan blinked rapidly. "My dear boy, I _am_ the Viscount of Stafford."

"What? You _must_ be bosky."

This use of slang to describe Nevan as improperly drunk very much offended him. "Well, like it or not, I AM the Viscount."

The poor youth had stumbled back a little, leaning against the tree now. "But--but the Viscount is old enough to be my father!"

Realization slowly lit Nevan's mind. "You're speaking of _my_ father. My father passed away a few years back and left me the title, you see."

"Oh…"

"What do you want with him?"

The youth sighed, then reluctantly admitted: "I came here to see the—the late Viscount Stafford because…well, he was my godfather."

***

_Surprising as this may seem to those of you who read me (read me? how...not correct, but you know what I mean), the next chapter should be up shortly. In the meantime, review!!_


	2. Two: Meeting at Night

_The second chapter as promised! And a little lengthier than most of my other chapters, which is usually a plus. Hope you like it!_

_***_

…_And the yellow half-moon large and low;_

_And the startled little waves that leap_

_In fiery ringlets from their sleep…_

--Robert Browning—

**

The Viscount stared at the vision of long legs and teenage naivete before him. Could it be that those wide, straightforward eyes hid the soul of a vicious con artist? Because though he couldn't for the life of him remember how his father liked his eggs, nor the man's favorite boot maker, of one thing he was certain:

"My father never had a godson!"

This did not appear to discourage the youth. Instead of insisting that he wasthe late Viscount's godson, he only nodded slowly.

"I think I'll have to explain the whole to you." He turned to the tree and Nevan watched suspiciously as he rose on his tiptoes and retrieved a black valise from one of the lower branches.

"Doesn't it bother the squirrels?' Nevan asked nonsensically, as if he'd suddenly recalled that he was supposed to be drunk.

The newcomer raised his eyebrows, but indulged the Viscount. "Doesn't what bother the squirrels?"

"Your taking up of all the space they need for storing nuts, of course."

"Of course," the boy drawled in response. "But the storing season hasn't begun yet. I believe the rodents have marked August 23rd on their calendars as the official start."

Nevan tapped his cane to the tip of the boy's boot. "Are you pulling my leg, boy?"

The stranger grinned very suddenly, drawing an answering smile from Nevan. "Could be."

The sound of boots clapping against the wet street silenced them at once. "Who's that?" the youth hissed urgently.

"Must you _hiss_ everything?"

He paid no heed and instead clambered back into the tree, leaving the valise standing beside a quizzical-looking Nevan. "Pardon, but I don't believe our conversation was finished!" the Viscount shouted, pointing a scolding finger at the upper boughs of the tree. "You cannot just claim to be my father's godson and walk away! Or climb away in your case."

"Please, sir, shhh."

"Always with the shushing. You know, Idon't think I babble on as much as you seem to think I do." Nevan turned to see the figure lumbering towards him. "Darien! Wonderful to run into you!" He leaned across the hedge that bordered the Grosvenor park to slap Darien on the shoulder.

Mr. Darien Caulfield slowly ran his gaze over Nevan. "Have you taken to talking to trees now?" Guessing that his new young friend did not wish to be discovered, Nevan had the tact to avoid mentioning his presence in the branches right above them.

Luckily, Darien's question had been rhetorical. "Did you come to my birthday dinner?" he asked sharply.

Nevan clapped his hands. "That's it! I was at your dinner party at Boodle's tonight!"

"Took St. James's Street by storm, I believe," Mr Caulfield said, not without pride. After a moment: "I didn't get any presents."

Nevan's appeared solemn for a few moments. "Sorry, old thing." The Viscount smacked Darien's back in what was meant to be a comforting gesture—instead the other man nearly went toppling into the street. Darien gravely adjusted the navy coat (which, as his beloved Serena had informed him, went so perfectly with his dark blue eyes) and clamped a hand to his wide-brimmed hat to ensure that it was still on his head.

In the tree, the youth rolled a pair of emerald green eyes.

Darien spotted the valise. "Are you going somewhere? Are you going to _Bath_?' he demanded.

Instead of denying any immediate traveling plans, Nevan snapped: "Bath? Of course not! I hate the place. Nothing to do except listen to some awful group singing and drink…drink what? Waters!" he spat.

"I dunno; water _is_ an important thing to drink," Mr. Caulfield intoned wisely. "D'you know, there's a lovely shop that sells the best boot blacking. I tell you, the stuff's exceedingly good at making your boots…what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Black."

"No, don't be ridiculous."

Nevan asked where this lovely shop was.

"Brighton, of course! Haven't you been attending to a word I've said?"

"You're foxed. Drunk silly," said the pot to the kettle.

"I never denied it!"

"True," Nevan conceded.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"What? No, old man, I don't believe I am."

"Oh…like to have a drink with me at my house?" Mr. Caulfield asked in a suddenly enthusiastic tone. "It's my birthday, y'know."

A twig suddenly dropped from the tree and onto Nevan's head. "Actually, I think I'll turn in."

"Well…fine."

"Fine. G'night!"

Mr. Caulfield muttered a few unflattering phrases and took off down the street.

"Your house is the other way, Darien."

"Oh. Yes."

When he'd finally gone, the youth descended from the tree. "Lucky the only people about are as drunk as you are. Is everyone in London like that?"

Nevan ignored this. "Now, my lad, are you going to tell me the truth about yourself or aren't you going to?" he said with still a bit of a slur.

"I am. Do you think we could…speak more privately in your house?" The boy seemed to have trouble saying the words, as if unwilling to trespass on the Viscount's property.

"Why, yes of course! How unhostly of me. _Am _I your host, then?" Nevan asked in some interest.

"If-if you don't mind, sir."

"Of course not! It would be very unhostly of me to mind."

They crossed the street in silence. When they reached the front door, Nevan had to coax his guest into entering.

"One would think you were an innocent maid I was luring into my home!" Nevan chuckled.

The boy barely cracked a smile. He visibly squared a pair of wool-clad shoulders before crossing the threshold.

"Have a seat, please." The Viscount bent to start the fire, but somehow managed to fall partially _into_ the unlit grate.

"I'll do that, sir."

"Nonsense! You're my guest."

"Though who knows for how much longer," the youth murmured as he bent over the fire.

Nevan seated himself in a stuffed scarlet armchair. Soon after, his guest turned to survey the Viscount's sitting room, illuminated now by the warm firelight. The furniture and hangings were all of autumnal colors, their rosy and comforting hues warming the room as much as the fire did. The stranger's eyes rested momentarily on the master of these surroundings—a strikingly handsome face, a loosely tied coif of dark brown curls, fashionable clothes of the first stare…clothes that cloaked a finely carved figure…

Color came into the youth's face. The blush attracted Nevan's attention, and with a pair of shrewd, albeit hazy, brown eyes, he scrutinized the boy's face. His gaze then lowered to his neck.

"Y'know, I've never seen such a poorly-tied cravat in my life! Looks like a monkey tied it for you. Or a squirrel," he amended. Before the boy could protest, Nevan had strode up to him and begun undoing the length of white muslin.

"S-sir, I'm fine, really, I'll fix it!"

"Nonsense!" Nevan refused to let the boy wriggle away and continued to tie the cravat, long fingers grazing the youth's collarbone or worse, his chest on occasion.

"There." Nevan held the boy by the shoulders to survey his handiwork. By now, the adolescent's face had gone a bright red and something about this second blush caused the Viscount to frown. He studied the face intently. "My father," he began slowly, "did not have a godson. But he did have a…good God! God_daughter_, that is! You're a--a _girl_!"

He practically sprang away from her, like her shoulders had burned his hands.

The teenage-boy-turned-woman nodded. Nevan scanned her figure in amazement. As an adolescent boy her height had been about average, but as the young woman Nevan now realized she was, she was undeniably tall. From underneath the cap's brim, her gaze met his hesitantly, but bravely. He noted absentmindedly that the green of her eyes could have put the fields of Ireland to shame.

"You're that girl from Norfolk." His father had grown up in that same county and been close to a Lord Christopher Oliver, a well-situated member of the peerage who would go on to marry far beneath him. 'A love-match,' Oliver's relations had spat unromantically. Unfortunately, the Olivers' fortunes took a turn for the worse, with Mrs. Oliver dying at childbirth and her husband following shortly after in a supposed shooting accident.

"Killed himself," one of the Viscount's cronies had said heartlessly.

This left the infant girl to the care of her Irish mother's sister. Though Nevan's father had confided to him that the aunt was a wishy-washy Nobody, the older man visited their rural home and his goddaughter a few times. Knowing his father, though, Nevan doubted the man had cared much for the Nobodies and probably only a little for their niece.

Nevan suddenly recalled the niece's name. "Letitia Oliver, was it not?"

"It still is." She lifted her head confidently, and met his eyes.

"Mm. Not married then." The cloud of alcohol still hanging over him, Nevan stretched out a hand without thinking.

Letitia didn't try to move away.

In one motion, he'd swept her cap from her head. The sudden action undid the tie she'd done her hair up in. Out of the cap tumbled, like water along rocks, shining auburn waves, tempestuous, falling over Letitia's shoulders, drifting around her long, fair face. Nevan remained stock still, dark face fixated on the girl before him.

For her part, Letitia felt herself growing uncomfortable, though not unpleasantly so. She cleared her throat loudly. Nevan immediately pulled away.

The sound had awakened him to the impropriety of the circumstances. He had a young, single, and _unchaperoned _woman in his lodgings late at night. She was dressed in men's attire—for heaven knew what reason—_and_ the shape of her leg_s_ could be clearly seen (Nevan had been sure to check). To top it all off, he had been acquainted with her for not above half an hour.

Nevan fell back into his chair.

The girl was Quality (in spite of her uncertain dressing habits and Nobody relatives). He would not, he told himself, treat her like he would a bit of muslin—one of those cheap, light women who practically threw themselves at him night after night. She had been his father's goddaughter. Nevan's innate pride and the responsibility he felt for the protection the family name took hold; and he resolved to look upon this girl as he would a…a niece.

The word tasted bitter in his head.

"Sit down, child," he tried.

The girl blinked at being addressed in this manner, but obeyed.

"Ahem. How may I be of assistance to you?"

Letitia's voice, still low, but huskier and more attractive than any boy's voice he'd ever heard, asked his forgiveness. "I am so sorry to have intruded like this, sir. It must seem very improper that I'm alone and dressed as I am. And now that I think of it, what I came here for will sound preposterous to you, and you can't be of help, so—"

"What _did _you come here for?"

His words unlocked the door to Miss Letitia Oliver's story and the world she had so recently escaped—that of her aunt and uncle's neighborhood.

"You must understand that Aunt May and Uncle George have never ill-treated me in any way. They're very jolly, though not exactly—" she hesitated "—sophisticated. But they've other responsibilities besides me. Their son, Freddy—"

"—who generously donated his clothes to you?"

She grinned. "Not precisely, sir, though I hope to return them to him soon. Freddy is their pride and joy and ready to attend university. They, of course, have to think of how they will pay for this. So to be honest, they wish to be rid of me."

Nevan frowned darkly, as if these barbarous relatives sat before him. "As if they hadn't cared for you like their own daughter!"

"That's just it, you see! They've done much for me already." Nevan wondered at the sincere, open nature of her words and face. "Well, they issued me something of an ultimatum: to marry Mr. Farber or get one of my father's relatives to look after me and fund my coming-out into society."

The Viscount's dark eyebrows flew up at the suggestion. "Are we _related_?" he asked in a panicked voice.

Letitia laughed. "No, of course not. But, Father's relatives disowned him after he married Mother and they really want nothing to do with me. Even after I called on them."

"Don't tell me you called on them in those clothes!"

"No. I did it the last (and only) time I came to London. Father's cousins are—" she paused.

He hazarded a guess: "Abominably rude, conceited cod heads."

"Yes," she agreed gratefully.

"Who is Mr. Farber?"

"Oh, he is our neighbor. He owns fifteen acres of his own land."

Nevan deduced that he was supposed to be impressed by this and 'aahed' compliantly.

"He offered for my hand," she said with simple pride. "And Aunt May says I certainly shan't get any other offers, what with my height and looks. And," she added, "my freckles. But do you think they are so very bad?" She tilted her face so that when he leaned forward he could clearly see the sprinkling of freckles across her faintly upturned nose. He also took another opportunity to admire the auburn waves that floated about her shoulders.

"Freckles may not be in fashion, but _I_ find them exceedingly charming," Nevan assured her, thinking that this Aunt May must be blind and senile. "And Mr. Farber thought so too, I think?"

"Mr. Farber is…attentive," she admitted cautiously. "And he has some _wonderful_ horses. But he's a good many years older than I am, and I don't think he loves me."

The Viscount looked up very suddenly at this casual remark. "But why have you come to me?"

"I came to see your father," she reminded him. "He was my last hope. Oh, but I'm so very sorry about his passing." She extended a hand to rest comfortingly on the arm of his armchair.

"Thank you. But it has been three years, and it's not as bad as it was," he said, touched by Letitia's sincere condolences. "I'm guessing that you had to run away from your uncle's house this time since they were so set on marrying you to Farber? And that's why you wore your cousin's clothing?"

He inwardly marveled at her ingenuity and sheer brazenness. He knew few women with the pluck to do such a thing.

She seemed pleased by his astuteness. Perhaps the alcohol had finally run its course. "Yes. My aunt had well nigh decided to tell Mr. Farber I would marry him, but I couldn't let that happen. And I remembered your father and some of the kind letters he'd sent me and…but, I see how stupid it was."

"Not just stupid; Miss Oliver, I think you're positively _nutty_. Though I suppose that's what comes of living with squirrels."

She bit her lip.

"However, if all your family has virtually disowned you, my father would more or less have been your guardian." Letitia's green eyes widened. He now had her full attention. "And seeing that he is no longer with us, I feel it my responsibility to act in his place—and make you my ward."

Letitia jumped up. "You couldn't do that, sir! I haven't any claim on you."

"No, you don't really. But who cares?"

Letitia shook her auburn head. "My lord, I don't think that liquor has worn off yet. You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, don't I?" His brown eyes flashed at this. She raised her eyebrows in response, wondering what my lord was like when crossed…

The Viscount, however, relaxed his form and mildly said, "It is very late so I propose we sleep on it. I'll discuss this with you tomorrow," he told her, his tone already brisk and guardian-like.

The girl frowned. "But sir, where will I sleep?" A cold sensation stole over her. She hoped against hope her drunken host would not suggest the very place where her reputation would be most likely to be endangered.

"Here in my house, of course."

***

_Ooh Nevan, you can have me sleep over any time :D I know everyone guessed from the beginning who the runaway was, so I didn't want to head the chapter with YOUTH/ LETITIA OLIVER-LITA. Seemed a little superfluous. _

_Hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you think! _


	3. Three: Till The Morn

So I know this story's supposed to follow "Of Good Ton" but I've made changes. For example I had a Jaden in the one-shot, but here he's...Jim :) It just seemed to work better. Ages are different in this story as well. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

_Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,  
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence_

--Robert Browning--

* * *

Letitia leapt back as if she'd been struck.

The Viscount, meanwhile, blinked at her strange behavior. "What?"

His auburn-haired guest could only open her mouth, then snap it closed again.

"It's a good plan," Nevan insisted. Had he said something wrong?

"Sir, I..." Letitia drew farther back, and moved to her right so that a chair stood between him and her. She wondered if she should be fearing for her reputation (again). But two objections to this possibility rang out in her head: for one, she could probably defend herself. For another, she wasn't sure she would really object if Nevan intended to do anything that wasn't entirely proper...

"Sir," she tried again, with a stammer, "you can't be serious. I'm afraid that liquor is having its effect again."

"Oh, dash the liquor. You need a bed to stay in and mine is as good as any," he ranted.

Letitia sucked in a breath abruptly.

Nevan stared. Slowly: "You don't think that...you absurd girl, _I'm_ not going to be here while you sleep."

"What?"

"No, no, I'm going to stay at a friend's home while you can make yourself comfortable here."

Letitia knew very well she should be thankful that that had been the Viscount's meaning all along.

And yet, she wasn't sure she was.

"I wouldn't want to impose."

"Well, too late for that," Nevan replied reasonably. "Shall I carry your things up?"

Letitia stared at the small valise pointedly.

"Quite right, you're certainly man enough to see to that. We'll talk in the morning I suppose. Just go to my bedroom, first door on the left and lock the door."

"But what if someone asks to be let in?"

Nevan scoffed. "My dear Miss Letitia, you underestimate my servants' intelligence. No one in my household would be stupid enough to try to wake me before eleven."

The girl's brown eyebrows arched.

"That's settled then." He nodded as if to congratulate himself on a job well done.

It wasn't settled, as Miss Oliver well knew, but she trusted the Viscount would be able to think better with a sober head in the morning. At least, she hoped he would.

"I'll be off then." He turned and made as if to exit the house.

"Sir," Letitia called suddenly.

"Miss Letitia?"

"Thank you again." She smiled, feeling shy for some reason.

The Viscount performed one of his most graceful bows, only to trip on the cane he'd left on the floor. "Devil confound it to hell!" Pause. "You didn't hear that," he told her as he left his house.

***

"Darien!"

"..."

"Darien!!"

The dim light of a candle appeared at the second-story window. A shadowed form tugged the curtains to one side. "Dash it all, who is it? Mama?"

"No, you codhead, it's me! Nevan!"

"Codhead? Who's the codhead? Seems to me anyone throwing rocks at a man's window at three in the morning is the real codhead."

Mr. Caulfield had a point there, but Nevan wasn't about to tell him so. "I'm just accepting your invitation. Didn't you ask me over for cards and a drink?"

"No."

Nevan spluttered for a moment. "You did, though!" the Viscount persisted.

"No."

"My good man, I thought we were celebrating your birthday!...again," he added in an undertone.

"My birthday?...You remembered!" rejoiced Mr. Caulfield from the window. A minute later, he was ushering Nevan into his library.

Darien poured Nevan a glass of burgundy, all while wearing a blue dressing gown and fuzzy slippers. But he paused for a moment and stared into space. "Funny thing, Nevan; I dreamt that my birthday was yesterday. Odd, isn't it?"

"Quite," his friend responded solemnly.

"Very vivid dream," Darien recalled before filling his own glass with crimson liquid.

***

As one accustomed to drinking the night and the better part of the morning away, Viscount Stafford should have been immune to the headaches, light-sensitivity, and groans that follow hours upon hours of frivolity.

Unfortunately, he was not. In fact, not only was he not immune, he was, as his dresser would put it "the damndest, crankiest person in Grosvenor Square" on those particular mornings/afternoons.

It was this persona which slowly made his way up the steps of his home in the rumpled clothing of the night before.

As for the occurrences of last night and the strange (even by Nevan's standards) encounter with a lovely, albeit cross-dressing, young woman he hoped against hope that they had been, as Darien had put it, part of a "very vivid dream."

"Cyrus," Nevan greeted with a curt nod to his butler who had answered the door.

"M-my lord!" he stuttered.

The Viscount looked into Cyrus's panicked face and could have kicked himself when he realized--he was supposed to be comfortably locked in his room.

"I ended up staying the night at Mr. Caulfield's home." Cyrus still looked uncomfortable, perhaps because he had interpreted the name Mr. Caulfield as "Miss Donovan" or "Miss Jennings" or...well, the list went on and on. "Is the lock on my bedroom door jammed again?" he asked, congratulating himself on his quick thinking. "It's been doing that...very recently."

Cyrus just looked perplexed now. "Not that I know of, sir." He ushered the Viscount in, albeit a little nervously.

Nevan looked about him. Casually, he asked, "Cyrus, have I had any, erm, visitors today?"

The butler went white, then suddenly burst out. "I'm sorry, sir, I knew he was lying! To think that boy had the gall to traipse in here as if he owned the place. I will take care of it directly."

Nevan leapt to catch Cyrus by the arm before he could alert the household of the intruder. "Are you speaking of Mr...Oliver?"

Cyrus relaxed. "He is your guest then, sir?"

Nevan did not answer immediately. Instead, he pondered for a few moments. He would not be able to see to Miss/Mr. Oliver on his own, and it would be helpful to have an accomplice, so to speak. Cyrus had worked for him for years and would, Nevan knew, carry many of the Viscount's indiscretions to the grave.

Sighing, he pulled Cyrus into his library. "Cyrus, there's something you should know about this Mr. Oliver character."

"Is he threatening you sir?"

"N-no..."

"Blackmail?"

"No, I--"

"Close connections to the family--your father perhaps?"

Nevan ignored the suggestive tone in Cyrus's voice. His father had committed his own indiscretions before marriage, and it seemed that Cyrus believed Letitia could be the result of such an affair. But Nevan knew this could not be true, at the very least because the dates and places didn't match up (and thanked God for it).

"Certainly not!"

Cyrus straightened in embarrassment. "Proceed, sir."

Nevan haltingly told Miss Oliver's story, starting with the fact that she was, in fact, Miss and not Mr. Oliver.

"Your father's goddaughter!" Cyrus realized.

"Just so."

Nevan related the happenings of the night before, minus, of course, the undeniable tension between himself and Miss Oliver.

"But now I don't know what I'm to do with her, Cyrus," finished Nevan, drawing a hand through his chestnut locks. "I feel obligated to help her, though, and she certainly shouldn't return to her aunt and uncle."

Cyrus studied his polished black shoes for a minute or two. "Would you like to know what I think, sir?"

"Please."

"I think you should find her a husband."

"What?" Nevan snapped his head up, so quickly he grunted in pain.

"Yes. She more or less said that was what she wanted--a relative to bring her out into society--and to tell the truth it's the only solution that would make sense for a girl her age."

"So you suggest I bring her out into society and...parade her to the eligible bachelors?" Nevan asked slowly.

"I would think it your duty."

His father would have considered it to be _his_ duty. In fact, it was the only viable solution, Nevan felt. But something fought against the idea...

"You're right, of course, Cyrus." He turned to the door. "Where _is_ Miss Oliver, by the way?"

Cyrus clucked disapprovingly, probably since he had a low opinion of girls who wore men's clothing. "In the stables, sir, with Jim. Very improper," he added.

Nevan hurried from the room before Cyrus had finished enlightening him.

***

"Mr." Oliver rolled up the hems of her pant legs up to her knees for fear of getting her only trousers full of dust and mud. Clapping her hands free of dirt, she grabbed the saddle and other equipment.

"Shall I saddle her, Mr. Stone?" she asked of Jim, the overseer of the stables. The young man swiped his bangs from his sweaty face and gazed at something for a second.

"Mr. Stone?" Letitia waited by the beautiful grey mare Jim had chosen to exercise that morning. If it hadn't been for the horses surrounding her she wouldn't have minded the opportunity to just look at the attractive stable boy she'd met. With his golden curls, crystal-blue eyes, and fine physique, he was only a few inches short of being a figure from Greek mythology. But the fact of the matter was, there _were _horses all around, and horses were Letitia's passion--they always had been.

"Go right ahead, Master Oliver," Jim finally said. He grinned and leaned against the sturdy fence as Letitia approached the horse, only to have it whinny angrily at her.

"That's why she's called Firecracker," the stable boy warned, albeit in amusement.

Letitia was considering the best way to approach the prickly-tempered horse when she heard a voice call for "Mr. Oliver." She swerved only to catch the stern eye of the Viscount.

"Ah, Jim, I see you've made the acquaintance of my young guest."

The young man nodded. "And a fellow lover of horses."

Nevan paused in interest. "I see. Would you mind if I borrowed your stable hand for a minute, Jim?"

"Take 'er away, sir," Jim said idly, and he began to walk towards the house.

But before he could take more than three steps, Nevan's hand had landed on his arm. "Er, what did you say, Jim?"

The blonde turned to Letitia, a slight flush coming to his face. "It mayn't be my business, Nevan," he began, the informal tone due to the fact that he and the Viscount had grown up together, "and I don't know that your guest wanted you to know..."

"How did you know she was a girl?" Nevan demanded.

"I'd like to know, too," Letitia put in.

The flush remained on Jim's face. "Well I won't pretend I don't know my way around the petticoat lines and opera dancers' rooms..."

Nevan promptly tossed a lone rag at his old friend. "Jim, we don't need any details on your conquests. And there is, after all, a lady present."

Jim apologized. "Anyway, it was when Miss Oliver put up her trouser legs..." he said, trailing off.

Letitia and Nevan instantly looked at said trousers, to see that they revealed a shapely pair of calves, creamy, smooth...

"Letitia!" he practically barked.

The girl immediately rolled the pant legs down, a palpable heat coming to her face. "I really didn't mean to be indecent, truly, I just didn't want my trousers to get dirty. Being a man is much more difficult than I thought it would be," she added to herself.

Jim couldn't help revealing a pair of shining white teeth in a grin. "Especially when you're a woman, ay?"

Nevan shot Jim a darkling look. "Jim, we have to keep this a secret. I'll explain everything to you later, but remember, you can't tell a soul about this. Agreed?"

"Cross me heart," Jim replied solemnly.

"Good man. I'll talk to you later, but first I have to straighten out Miss Oliver."

"Don't be too hard on her Nev. And if all else fails, I'll keep her to myself, eh?" He winked engagingly at Letitia, who smiled.

Nevan practically snapped at his friend. "Jim, Miss Oliver is a lady; _not_ a cheap opera dancer," he said so only the other man could hear.

His companion was unfazed. "Well you'd best be remembering that yourself, hadn't you Nevan?"

Jim patted the hunter green shoulder of Nevan's coat and walked away, whistling.

Nevan rounded on Letitia immediately. "_What_ have you been doing, Miss Letitia? I told you to stay put in my room!"

"Yes I know, but I had a better idea."

"Oh, did you?"

Letitia ignored the sarcasm. "Yes. I've decided to, for the time being, just _stay_ a boy."

"Certainly not," Nevan replied.

"And why not?"

"Because I forbid it." The words had come out before he had time to think, but once they'd been said, a forboding look came into Letitia's face.

"What presumption. You _forbid_ it? You're not my father. You're not even related to me!"

"No, but I am your guardian."

"Is there some document that says so?"

"Well no, but by default I am. And listen here, my girl, don't tell me you didn't come to London partly to be brought out into society."

"What of it?" she asked in curiosity.

"I could sponsor that coming-out. In fact, I shall, because I think it my duty to do so."

Letitia crossed her arms as she leaned back against the stable wall. "How noble of you."

"A little."

"I preferred you when you were drunk."

Strange; you're the first. Now then, do you agree that by bringing you out into society, you and I can find you a husband?"

She met his gaze. "I suppose…"

"Good; that's settled." Nevan surveyed Letitia's clothing. "Do you even own women's clothes?" he asked in despair.

"Of course I do!"

"Good, because starting tomorrow you're wearing them. Now, we just have to make sure you're kept out of sight for the rest of the day. If any one outside of this house sees you, the fat'll be in the frying pan; take my word for it."

"Nevan, old man, good to see you!"

At the sound of the unexpected town visitor, Nevan jumped to his feet and promptly pushed Letitia into the middle of a haystack.


	4. Four: The Soldier

_Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.  
What shall arrive with the cycle's change?_

--Robert Browning--

Lieutenant Andrew Flitter stood before the stable entrance in his strikingly red uniform, feet encased in boots now powdered with red dust. He reamined stock-still for a few seconds, wondering if his eyes had deceived him. Had Nevan just shoved a young man into that haystack?

His bright green eyes hovered to the corner of the stable and sure enough, a trousered leg stuck out of it.

"Is this a bad time?" the soldier asked hesitantly. Nevan had always had a few idiosyncrasies, and he supposed that was a nobleman's prerogative, but pushing boys into hay? That seemed to be overdoing it.

Realizing who his visitor was, Nevan hastily strode over to Mr. Flitter and shook his hand heartily. "Of course not! I haven't seen you in over a year, and you ask if it's a good time! How are you, my man?"

Within seconds, Andrew had reverted to his trademark jovial smile, the same one that had kept him marching over foreign lands. He clapped Nevan on the back. "Not too bad. A little sunburnt perhaps, but no damage done."

"You look red as a tomato," Nevan told him frankly. "All limbs accounted for?"

"As far as I know," Andrew replied with a laugh. "Not that the Canary Island men are very savage."

"I was actually thinking of the Canary Island women," Nevan joked. "Come on inside, let me pour you a drink. Why didn't Cyrus show you to the sitting room?" he wondered in a little irritation.

"Oh, he did. I just took the liberty of coming out here to look for you." Andrew turned his head to look at the haystack. "Wouldn't your friend like to join us then?"

"Friend? You should know by now I find friends overrated, Andrew m'boy."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Perhaps it's none of my business what you wealthy types do..."

Nevan promptly punched his shoulder. "That has nothing to do with it." Realizing the game was up, he called, "Mr. Oliver, would you like to accompany us?"

The bedraggled girl extracted herself from the haystack, looking a veritable mess. Hands clenched and hay sticking out of her clothes, she looked near ready for murder.

"Let me introduce you to my friend Lieutenant Andrew Flitter. Smile, you silly boy. Andrew, this is my uh, godson, erm..."

"Frederick Oliver, sir." Letitia shook Andrew's hand, though a little awkwardly since she wasn't yet used to greeting people the way men did.

"Yes, he stopped here for a night on his way up to Oxford. For spring term," he added, hoping that would make the lie foolproof.

"Jolly good; do you know George Scripps by chance? He's my cousin. Oh and dear Professor Hardy..."

"Alright, Andrew, don't overwhelm the boy. He's very shy," Nevan whispered. "Let's go back inside now, shall we?"

***

Letitia snapped her head up so sharply she felt sure she'd pulled a muscle. She had been tending to the cleaning of a boot when Nevan informed her of the existence of her twin sister.

"What?"

"You can be Frederick Oliver for now, but after tomorrow, you're back to being Letitia Oliver, Freddy's twin sister."

Letitia frowned over her boot, seeing several flaws with this plan. "Why would my sister come after I'd been here? Wouldn't it make sense for her to have accompanied me? And don't people know that my father only had a daughter? And--ouch!"

Always the effective pseudo-guardian, Nevan had cut off Letitia's criticism my flicking her nose. "Must you put a damper on my genius plans?"

She looked up at him frankly. "I wouldn't if they were indeed genius."

"Have you a better solution then, brat?"

Letitia realized that Nevan had already accustomed himself to her presence and had now taken to calling her nicknames. Not flattering ones, granted, but nicknames nonetheless.

"Not yet," she conceded.

"Well then, we'll have to do with this plan."

Andrew entered the room, musket in tow, which Nevan had requested to see. "Not harassing Mr. Oliver again, are you Nevan?"

"I think a guardian has the right to do that if he pleases," sniffed the Viscount.

Andrew paused in the doorway. "Guardian? Oh, that's a good one," he guffawed.

Letitia tried to hide a smirk at the rising angry color in Nevan's face.

"I'm perfectly serious."

"And perfectly sober?" Andrew tried.

"Yes, damn you!" Nevan stopped himself before he could slap the table in anger and looked guiltily over at the amused girl. He tried to cover over the profanity by sternly saying: "I mean, ahem, of course I'm sober."

The lieutenant seated himself on the same sopha as Letitia. "He's funning me, isn't he? For your sake, I hope he is, lad," Andrew said.

Letitia shook her head mournfully. "Unfortunately not, sir. Dreadful, isn't it?" Her brilliant green eyes gleamed mischievously, and Nevan looked ready to tweak her nose again.

Andrew set the musket down at his feet and began to have a friendly, though uncomfortable question and answer session with Letitia about her origins and family. Nevan, hoping to intervene, asked Andrew what his plans were for the night.

"Hm? Oh, I was thinking of visiting White's for a little frivolity and cards. Shall I see you there?" He turned to Letitia whose glanced over nervously at Nevan.

Nevan promptly said, "Oh no, he's leaving this afternoon. Wants to get to Oxford as quickly as possible."

"Nonsense!" cried Andrew. "Term doesn't start for another week. And Freddy here can postpone his coach ride, can't you Freddy?" Andrew wrapped an arm around "Freddy's" shoulders friendly-like. Letitia could have sworn she saw Nevan's whole body stiffen at the gesture.

The girl did not answer immediately. She knew enough of town life to know that girls were expected to be much more modest and prim than in the country. She'd also heard enough tales of men's adventures in London to know she would enjoy them as much as boys her age did, if not more.

But did she know that nothing could go wrong if she chose to stay a boy a few more days?

Nevan's condescending tone clinched the deal for her. "Frederick certainly may not--"

"Of course I can!" Letitia said defiantly.

Andrew's face lit with another smile, one which automatically drew one from Lita. "Wonderful. I'll see you both at six, then, shall I? Good day!" And Lieutenant Flitter, the only unknowing protector Letitia had, was gone.

As soon as Andrew had left, the Viscount swerved on his ward, a dangerous look on his face. "If you _were_ a boy I would take my belt to you here and now," he snarled quietly.

Instead of cowering as she might be disposed to do, Letitia stood and met Nevan's look unwaveringly. "I will ignore that sir, in light of all you've done for me so far. But I am of age, you know, and--"

"No such thing! Twelve or twenty, you are unwed and thus a _girl_ and my ward!"

Letitia felt a burning anger now, rising in her chest, threatening to overcome her. "Then I happily accept your previous offer. The sooner you find me a husband, the sooner you'll stop acting as though you _own_ me. And the sooner I stop being your 'ward,' the better!"

"That goes double for me!" threw back Nevan as he marched from the room.

***

Letitia sorted through the contents of her valise in despair. Her only other coat, really Freddy's only other coat, was hideous. Certainly not fit for a dinner and cards party. And even if Nevan weren't sizzlingly angry with her, she would certainly never be able to wear one of his coats. She wouldn't be able to fill the space where his masculine shoulders, broad chest, and rippling muscles went.

Why did she suddenly feel as if she were the one sizzling now?

She hurled her empty valise onto the guest bed, in frustration with herself and the situation she'd created. It would prove much more complicated than she'd predicted, which, she admitted to herself, Nevan had known from the beginning (even when drunk).

A knock on the door shook her into consciousness, but before she could speak, the newcomer had rudely opened it already.

"Come in," Letitia said sarcastically.

Nevan looked grim. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"To get you some clothes, dash it! You look like an urchin, and if you must go out and be filthily improper and crossdress, I want you to do me credit."

Letitia did not quite follow the reasoning but had enough sense to dash out the door after Nevan.


	5. Five: London Men

_Hello, my good readers! Hope the remainder of your winter holidays are going well! This next chapter is kind of filler, but hopefully still entertaining; enjoy!_

_And a special thank you to my beta, Kat! _

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own it. Duh. _

***

_Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,_

_As up and down he paced this London,_

_With no work done, but great works undone,_

_Where scarce twenty knew his name._

--Robert Browning—

***

"Letitia!"

Silence.

"Ms. Oliver," Nevan hissed, gesturing wildly for her to dismount from the carriage.

His cross-dressing ward continued to ignore him; she seemed instead to have become fascinated with her fingernails.

Exasperated, Nevan exclaimed: "Oh, very well. FREDERICK."

His companion cocked her head engagingly. "Sir?"

A hearty chuckle rang out from the driver's seat.

"Be quiet, Jim."

The unlawfully handsome man turned to face them, loosening the reins on the horses as he did so.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Nevan..."

"—I'm sure I do mind—"

"Seems to me you've met your match."

Nevan glared at first Jim—"Traitor," he accused—then Letitia, whom he addressed. "If you insist on being treated like a boy, perhaps I _shall_ take my belt to you," he threatened. Then, without thinking, he offered his arm to the vagrant as he would have with any other female. Letitia ignored it and leapt down.

"Thank you sir, but you may want to save those manners for a lady."

"Just what I was thinking," the Viscount replied bitingly, before leading the way to Weston's. The famed shop's windows practically shone with the coats of royal blue and charcoal as the couple approached. The streets themselves bustled with people and Nevan was hard put to guide the curious Letitia through the crowds.

"Come along," he snapped impatiently, as if she'd been a dog at his heels. Letitia arched her brows, but did as she was told.

It must be said that jer guardian still chafed under the idea that she had disobeyed him outright and had chosen to remain a boy. As one used to having his word amount to law, it was a new and not very pleasant experience to have to deal with this new stubborn gender-confused ward.

Additionally, Nevan had never had to worry himself over anyone's comfort other than his own. Briefly, he wondered: was he indeed suited for this job as guardian? _And_—

"Mr. Oliver," he whispered suddenly, "_put your hat back on_."

Letitia had begun fanning herself with the hat, but without the hat her auburn waves showed and it was quite clear that she was a woman. "Oops, sorry."

--the girl could jeopardize her reputation as easily as one could pull a petal off a rose! How was he to cope with it?

Letitia simply smiled obliviously and replaced her hat, then tailed behind him as he pushed the door to the tailor's shop open and the bell signaled Mr. Weston himself.

"My lord," he greeted, smiling in anticipation of the many pounds that would soon be flowing out of the Viscount's pockets and into his own.

But it was not to be business as usual for Mr. Weston. For one, the Viscount, who seldom came into the shop accompanied had a friendly, effeminate friend in tow, and introduced the young man as his "godson." It did not take a genius to determine that this was mathematically impossible, but the tailor saw no reason to complain. Business was business.

But the odder thing was that the man refused to be properly fitted. That is, the Viscount refused to have the young man fitted, especially after Mr. Weston approached to measure him about the torso and the youth reddened. Then the two young men consulted quietly for a while, with the boy saying "unless you want to measure me yourself" and the Viscount...blushing?

In the end, Mr. Oliver, who really was a very pretty boy and thus either the pride or despair of his mother, took off his (rather ill-fitted) coat and Mr. Weston was forced to glean measurements from that.

"Mark my words, it'll be one scrape after another as long as you're a boy,"

Nevan told Letitia darkly as they exited the shop.

Her thoughts however, were not on the social errors yet to be committed.

"How much did he say the coat would cost?" she asked suddenly.

Nevan glanced at her in surprise, then shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest idea."

"I must pay you back for it, though," she insisted.

As the Viscount ushered her in the direction of his carriage, he replied: "My dear _Mr._ Oliver, how much money did you bring with you to London?"

There was silence here. Letitia discreetly shoved a hand into her coat pocket, touching the few shillings she had left.

Nevan noted the action, though, and nodded. "Just so. And as I recall, you came to London for someone to _fund_ your coming-out, did you not?'

He had her there. "Well, yes, but that coat is not for my coming-out."

"Agreed—unless you want to be a well-dressed _boy_ when a bachelor offers you his

hand in marriage," finished Nevan. "Unfortunately, Miss Oliver, being a young man without occupation costs a good deal of money. Whereas being a

young woman without occupation..."

"Could reel in an heir and his wealth." The girl sighed, casting a wistful look to the crowds of men around her strutting about freely, without worrisome aunts or chaperones to bother them. "I suppose Freddy Oliver will be going back to Oxford soon—

"Tomorrow," Nevan interrupted firmly.

Letitia paused, mouth twisting into an obstinate frown. "Saturday."

"Today." Her guardian seemed unconscious of the fact that he had just _lowered_ his offer instead of raising it to meet hers.

"You're an awful haggler."

"Because I usually get my way at the outset," he informed her with a smirk.

Letitia was not at all impressed. "The day after tomorrow?"

"Oh, very well."

The brunette "girl" nodded, albeit ruefully. "So Freddy will leave the day after tomorrow; to be replaced with his twin sister."

"Good lad. Er, girl, I mean."

For some odd reason, Nevan felt the urge to wrap a comforting arm around her dejected shoulders—as he had seen Andrew do so easily.

"That man over there," Letitia suddenly said, indicating a tall, black-haired gentleman dismounting from a carriage with a blonde one. "He looks familiar."

The Viscount instantly recognized Darien and Zain and muttered: "Oh no. All right, stay calm. Don't blab, for we can't give them any hint that you're a girl. Just don't worry and don't panic."

"I'm not worrying," Letitia said in mild surprise.

"Well you should be," he snapped back. "Why hallo, Zain, Darien, didn't expect to see you here," he greeted in a smooth voice.

His two friends glanced at each other in confusion, then shrugged simultaneously.

"Heard that Andrew's finally back, Nevan?"

"He called on me earlier today. Have you seen him Darien?" Andrew and Darien had been inseparable in their youth, and Nevan knew the black-haired gentleman had been counting down the days till his arrival.

"Indeed I did! He's dark as a gypsy, isn't he?" he remarked fondly. "Yes, he called not long after you—" Darien's expression suddenly morphed into one of annoyance. "By the by, I have a bone to pick with you!" he told the Viscount, wagging an accusatory finger at him.

"Wha—?"

Darien proceeded to demand: had Nevan had taken leave of his senses? For_ what_ he meant by throwing stones at Darien's house at three in the morning, Mr. Caulfield could not even fathom, nor could he understand Nevan's need to _barge_ in as if he lived there because as far as Darien could recall his placard did _not_ read Darien Caulfield and Nevan Stafford, thank you very much!

Temper roused, Nevan tried to cut in. "Will you take a moment to breathe? As I remember, you practically tripped over yourself to let me in—"

"—and to top it off, you just LEFT this morning without so much as a by-your-leave. Didn't even think to stay for morning tea," Darien accused petulantly.

"I was drunk! I popped by because I thought—"

"DON'T try to pull the 'but it's your birthday' trick because I KNOW it's not my birthday."

Zain patted his friend's shoulder with a proud nod. "Yes you do, pumpkin."

"Darien, calm down—"

"I AM CALM!"

Letitia had watched this one-sided fight bemusedly. Given that Nevan's actions had been harmless, she could only come to one explanation for Darien's outrage—a general theory she had made upon her arrival to the city.

London men were daft.

Tragic, but true. She dared any of them to prove her wrong.

"Snuff?"

Letitia turned her head to face the angry man's companion, who now bent over her amiably, holding a small box of white powder. The man himself was a golden-haired gentleman with soft features and an engaging smile, one that seemed to light up his fair face.

And apparently, he had as daft a brain as everyone else.

"Excuse me?"

Snuff? Was that a nickname? Or perhaps a dog name? Aunt May had once had a dog with that name. She looked frantically around for the man's lost dog. "Snuff? Here Snuff!"

The blonde man blinked.

Then, deciding this boy was very odd—he'd probably been taking lessons from Nevan— the blonde man shrugged and introduced himself as Lord Zain Latham.

"And I suppose you don't care for any snuff? Never liked the stuff anyway," Zain admitted, snapping the box shut and putting it away.

Letitia realized now that the white powder in the box had been the snuff. She bit her lip, annoyed with herself. There was so much to learn about high society it made her head whirl.

"And _your _name, sir?" Lord Latham prodded gently.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I'm Frederick Oliver." She shook Zain's gloved hand in a hearty grip so as to make up for her idiocy.

Nevan and Darien's voices rose again and in spite of herself she tuned in once more, panicking inwardly when she heard Darien say:

"Is there something you're not telling me, Nevan? Some reason you felt the need to barge into my house?"

"Darien," Nevan said soothingly. "What reason would I have for wanting to sneak into your house at night and stay till morning? Hold your tongue, Zain."

"Not even one tiny seduction joke?"

Letitia did her best to tamp down the rising color in her cheeks. Nevan glanced over at her and hurried to change the subject.

"The fact is I was nowhere near sober. Hell, you should have seen yourself."

"I have seen myself before, thank you. And I'm quite attractive."

The Viscount ruthlessly posed the question: "But have you seen yourself performing a sock puppet play with your bedroom slippers?"

Zain raised a brow with a grin. "Quite the thespian, aren't you Darien? Or should I say, your slippers are?"

The two quarreling men turned back to face one another when Darien named another crime committed.

"_And_ my new blue dressing gown has gone _missing_!"

"God help us all! Whatever shall we do?"

The argument continued as Zain shook his head like a nursemaid over a pair of toddlers.

"It's the dressing gown that's at the heart of all his hysterics," he confided to Letitia. "Darien's fiancée, Serena, gave it to him for his birthday. 'Twill go so well with your eyes,'" Zane cooed in a voice that was scarily feminine (though Letitia mused that she was one to talk). "But now that it's already lost, Darien's having a fit. Even though, I think he's secretly glad about it."

"Why?"

"His heart still belongs to his—hideous, mind you—olive green dressing gown. But tell me, how do you know our dear Nevan?" Zain asked, indicating that gentleman just as he made a rude gesture at his sparring partner.

"Erm, he's my guardian."

Zain's green eyes flew open in shock. "_What_? Y-your _guardian_?"

By the time Nevan and Darien had finally remembered what good friends they were and Nevan had taken leave of the other man—

("That's enough squabbling for today. I have to go tend to my ward."

"You have a ward?!"

"Two actually."

"Good God!...give them my condolences.")

--they found Zain clutching his sides as he roared in laugher at some joke. Meanwhile, Letitia grinned uncertainly.

"Oy, Zain, what's the joke?" Nevan asked affably.

"Y-_you_ are," Zain gasped out.

Letitia surveyed the faces around her in amusement. Zain remained doubled over, laughing even harder now, so that Letitia was tempted to laugh as well. Darien's lips were twitching suspiciously and Nevan looked both confused and insulted, although he wasn't sure why.

"Are all of my acquaintances numbskulls?" he finally asked of the heavens, pushing Letitia towards the carriage as they were attracting the attention of passersby.

**

The time spent in the carriage ride from Weston's was focused on fabricating a believable story about 'Frederick Oliver' and his/her twin sister. Nevan and Letitia soon dismissed Jim from the conversation as his contributions consisted mainly of comments such as "I hope Freddy's sister has ankles as pretty as Freddy."

"All right, so Frederick Oliver attends Oxford while his twin sister, Letitia, has been in Norfolk. I am about to launch Letitia into society, but she did not accompany Frederick here because…"

"—my aunt was ill."

"Oh, was she?" Nevan asked sympathetically.

"What? No, she—moving on! My aunt was _supposedly_ ill and I had to tend to her while Freddy came to London early because he _so_ wanted to see you."

"Naturally—who wouldn't?"

"Try to be helpful?" she requested sternly, though she fought a smile.

"The twins will unfortunately be unable to see one another in London as Freddy leaves before Letitia arrives. _Tres_ disappointing," said Nevan in a French accent, "but that is life."

"I do hate all this lying," Letitia sighed.

Nevan nodded in understanding. He was discovering that his ward had a frank, honest nature. But, as he reminded her: "One's image and reputation are _everything_ in London."

Morosely, Letitia dismounted from the carriage, not at all comforted. "So I've learned."

She cast her eyes to their destination. "Where've you brought me?" she asked, staring at the beautiful, stark white house before them.

"To Letitia Oliver's new home—I hope…" he murmured to himself.

***

_Please review! It does a lot for my progress and self-esteem. And please take a second to take my poll!_


	6. Six: A Zain and Ami Interlude

Anne Mariner was under the distinct impression that Nevan—who liked to boast that he knew more about her than any other man in London—thought her an idiot.

That belief, she thought, seemed rather unfounded.

She glanced over their surroundings, her family's library. It consisted of oak shelves overflowing with books, most of which were hers, and all of which she had read. That did not suggest idiocy, did it?

Besides that, Nevan had often come to her for help with Shakespeare and arithmetic and French and…well, most of his school subjects, come to think of it. And all this in spite of the fact that he was four years her elder.

"Anne, are you listening?"

She didn't like to toot her own horn, but when she considered it, she realized that she had single-handedly gotten Nevan through primary, secondary and university education.

He should be thanking her!

"Anne! Have you attended to a single word I've said?"

Of course she had! He had been lying through his teeth about some nonsense concerning a godson and goddaughter and Oxford and…oh my, he did _not_ look happy…

Anne made another discovery: it was rather difficult for Nevan to know all of her brilliant opinions if she didn't actually say them out loud.

"I'm sorry Nevan," she stuttered, darting an embarrassed look at his companion, a green-eyed boy with feminine features.

"So would you _kindly_ say whether you accept the proposal?" Nevan asked in a loud, impatient voice. At the annoyed look on her face he immediately lowered his voice. "Will you have Mr. Oliver's sister here to stay with you as soon as you can or won't you?"

The slight young woman shifted uncomfortably in her muslin morning dress. "I would be happy to have her company, of course, but…I'm not entirely understanding why she can't hire a house with her aunt or someone?"

"Eh, circumstances at the farm wouldn't allow Miss Oliver's aunt to leave Norfolk. And the poor girl has no other relatives," he added mournfully.

"I see. Mr. Oliver," she addressed this youth shyly, "I hope you don't think me abominably rude—"

"—I'm sure that is what he's beginning to think, Anne—"

"Oh, I _am_ sorry!" she cried, flushing. "But I'm also sorry to say, Nevan, that I know you're lying to me outright."

This time, both Nevan and his companion were the ones shifting uncomfortably.

"I truly don't understand," Anne admitted. It was a feeling she was not fond of. "I don't see why I'm to lie as well, and say I went to school with Miss Oliver when I've never before met her. It would be more proper if you took Miss Oliver to stay with your aunt, Nevan."

Nevan grimaced at the thought of his snooty aunt keeping an eye on his volatile ward.

Miss/Mr. Oliver suddenly leapt into the conversation. "Can't we tell her? You must trust her?"

"My dear Freddy, Anne is the soul of discretion. It's her hired help I don't trust."

Behind the closed door, Letitia could have sworn she heard an indignant sniff.

Anne's face did not reveal her annoyance at being talked about as if she weren't in the room, only saying: "I hope nothing serious has happened, Nevan?"

Nevan's eyes inadvertently roamed to Leitia's face. Something serious? He found that she had been sneaking a look at him also, and their gazes met. "I've yet to find that out," he murmured, eyes still on Letitia.

He shook himself from his reverie, however, turned back to Anne then swiveled to look at Letitia once more. He sighed and muttered two words from the corner of his mouth: "Show her."

Letitia complied. Like a conjurer performing a magic trick, she tipped her hat off her head with one hand and undid her hair tie with the other so that her auburn waves poured forth around her shoulders.

Anne, who did not easily lose her cool exterior, gasped. "Oh my…"

Nevan hid a smile at the wondrous transformation and Letitia's beauty. "_Miss_ Oliver,"—he silently indicated the youth beside him— "grew up on the farm and is not yet accustomed to London manners. If I'm to bring her out into society, I need your help, Anne."

Blue eyes still wide, Anne shook her head. "Nevan, you know I'm no social butterfly. My fashion taste is only so-so, I'm only an adequate dancer—"

"I'll help the rest of the way. I don't have five girl-cousins and a long line of mistre…I don't have five girl-cousins for nothing."

Nevan could have sworn under his breath for the slip of the tongue. There was no need to blab to two pure-minded girls about his doings behind closed doors.

"But I still don't quite understand…" Goodness, was this state going to be a perpetual one? Anne wondered.

Nevan promised: "I'll explain everything to you before Miss Oliver 'comes into town' on Friday, but for now, we have to be off. Before Miss Oliver has her lessons…Mr. Oliver is going to learn a few things as well."

Before he could stop himself, Nevan had directed another discreet look at the brunette, who smiled in response. He looked away, asking himself: was _this _habit going to become a perpetual one?

**

The next scene to grace Anne's normally silent library was, though she would not have thought it possible, even more exciting than the one before.

Always on top of things, Anne had already begun setting plans into motion for Letitia's stay at the Mariner household. She had begun writing a letter to hire an abigail who would act as Letitia's chaperone and lady-in-waiting. As she wrote, though, her mind still struggled with the revelation that Nevan's ward was a woman dressed as a man.

Just as Anne dipped her quill into ink, another visitor burst into the library. Upon seeing him, the girl flew out of her chair.

Neither Zain Latham's disheveled, sun-caressed hair nor his panting boded well, the girl thought ominously. Having rushed into the room, the youthful baronet skittered towards Anne.

"Save me!"

"What on—"

Hot on his heels, Anne soon discovered, was her butler, who slid to a more dignified stop at the library door's threshold. "Miss Mariner, I apologize, I told him I would ask if you were available and –"

"And clearly, she _is_ available," cut in Zain impudently.

The butler shot a look of dislike at my lord, correcting himself in an icy voice: "I intended to ask whether Miss Mariner wished to see Lord Latham _at all_."

Anne felt guilty for being so amused by both Zain's improper behavior and the butler's stuffy expression.

Again, it was Zain who responded for her: "Of course she wishes to see me!" He paused, then looked over at Anne, uncertainty flittering into his face. "Don't you?"

Fighting a smile, Anne calmly thanked and dismissed her butler. The man began to swell up indignantly but before he could speak, Zain had shooed him out the door. Anne sighed, lightly rubbed a temple and shook her head. If Miss Oliver wanted a lesson in propriety, Anne thought, she certainly should not go to Lord Latham.

This sentiment was probably heightened when, without warning—which was how Lord Latham did everything—Zain swooped down on Anne, took her face in his hands and pressed his warm lips to the corner of her mouth. "My hero," he pronounced, breath tickling her ear before he lifted his head to smile down on her.

She desperately hoped he would mistake the flush coming into her features for one of mortification and not pleasure. "Z—my lord!"

"Hm?" He tilted his head questioningly, fingers resting on her neck and collarbone now.

Anne moved away suddenly, choking out: "That was not proper…a-at all!"

A pout flitted into his face when she moved out of his touch. "Pish-posh," he said insolently. "You have very tired notions about propriety."

"And you have no notions at all," Anne shot back.

He grinned at the accusation. "Quite right. Shall I reiterate that with a demonstration?" He inched towards her and her heart sped up when she realized he was about to take her into his arms and….

She backed away, hastily retreating behind a chair.

Zain's smile widened, but instead of pursuing her, he dropped into an armchair.

And now, though Anne, she, a single, marriageable young lady, was locked in a room with a bachelor. Not just any bachelor, though. One whom she was growing incurably fond of. And also one who was fully unconscious, Anne thought melancholically, of the fact that Anne's mother did not approve of the match. In fact, the deluded boy seemed to think that Anne's mother quite liked him.

Recalling this issue, Anne suddenly panicked at the thought of what her mother would say if she discovered Zain had called on Anne yet again.

"Lord Latham, my mother will be here shortly," she said in voice that was louder than usual. "Or if you like, allow me to fetch her."

Adorable creature, Zain mused, as he regarded her hands, kneading her pastel blue skirts. As if she didn't know he had come to see her and her alone.

"No need for that, though I'd be happy to speak with her mother. We seemed to have reached a wonderful understanding on gardening and fashion last we spoke, don't you think?"

Anne was bereft of speech. "Last they had spoke" Anne's mother had suggested that Zain cared about his clothes more than any school girl in London should.

The issue separating the two (though Zain did not know it), was the issue which has plagued man for centuries: money. Zain had come into his estate after his father had exhausted himself gambling most of it off and Zain's own gambling pursuits had not helped any. The Latham estate was greatly encumbered and so, despite his charm and handsome looks, Lord Latham was not a catch in the marriage market.

Another thing: Mrs. Mariner did not see why Anne's eyes kept straying to Zain when she had Nevan Stafford and his riches right in front of her. The two had grown up together and the man had everything a young woman, just out, could desire in a husband. Granted, he was a little unscrupulous when it came to loose women but otherwise…what could be more natural than a marriage between the two?

_A marriage for love, Mother. Would that be so unnatural?_ Anne had wanted to shout.

But she hadn't. She had yet to stand up to that steel-spined woman.

"Please," Zain broke into Anne's thoughts, sublimely unconscious of all this trouble, "sit down away from the fireplace—you look a little flushed from the heat."

Anne narrowed a glance at him for the comment, but complied. "My mother will be here shortly, sir," she repeated, eyes cast to the floor.

"I couldn't care less, Anne," he informed her, "since I doubt your mother has any need for these." He then pulled a holder of blue-tinged violets from his pocket and laid it on Anne's lap. The holder, she saw, was meant to be pinned on a dress. "I'll hazard a guess that you're wearing a dress tonight that will match them?

He had a teasing gleam in his green eyes and she couldn't help smiling. In the short time they'd been acquainted, he'd learned to know her well.

"They're very lovely," she said in her quiet voice.

In an equally soft voice: "I had the hope they would do their wearer justice." Anne blushed again, still unused to his easily dropped compliments, his unmasked adoration for her.

"Will you wear them for my sake, Anne?"

That one last word went off like a warning bell in her head. "Miss Mariner," she corrected under he breath.

He'd heard her. The smile froze on Zain's face. "The devil it is," he swore, suddenly, making as if to take her by the shoulders and shake the ardent feelings that he felt into her. But he'd stood up so suddenly that he hit the table Anne had been writing on and toppled the ink well over. It, of course, elected to fall onto his waistcoat.

"Damn it."

"Oh, your lovely clothes." Like her mother, Anne knew how much thought Zain put into his raiment each day. Without thinking, she pulled her handkerchief out and began dabbing at his waistcoat. Although the man gave the article of clothing a pained expression, he manfully looked back to the girl's bent head. "Anne, will you look at me!"

"Miss—"

"God, I don't care!" he expostulated. "I don't care what society says; I never have regarded it. Nevan calls you by your given name all the time, does he not?"

She started at the jealous gleam in his eye. "Yes, but he has known me since…"

"Childhood. Yes, I know. But Anne, you have no need to speak to _me _as if I were a stranger, instead of the man who cares for you...more than anyone could." Anne felt her breath catch at this, but did not meet is eyes. More gently now, Zain lifted her head up. "And I think I've earned the right to say your name since, as I hope you know by now, I lo—"

He was cut short by the door's 'click' as it swung open. In the threshold stood Anne's mother, a petite woman with deceptively soft blue eyes.

Anne and Zain realized just how close they were, with Zain's hand resting on Anne's cheek and Anne's hand on his chest. They leapt apart, both blushing.

"Lord Latham, how kind of you to call on us. How is your family?"

***

Back in Grosvenor Square, the Viscount Stafford was frowning over the playing cards lying on the kitchen's table. The kitchen, he was happy to say, was not a place Nevan frequented. He preferred the solitude and luxury of his study or library or even his bedroom. Yet it was not his will but fate, here named Letitia Oliver, that had dragged him into the kitchen.

"This," thundered the Viscount, "is supposed to be a lesson on cards, not cooking!"

Unabashed, Letitia smiled over at him. "Piqued that I've already beat you three times at whist, sir?"

"It was beginner's luck!"

"I'll take that as a yes," Letitia responded airily. She turned back to the oven, opening it to pull a tray of tarts out.

Nevan grumbled: "If anyone finds you, a young boy, flittering over the ovens as if you were a cook—"

"Well, they shan't."

"But _if—_"

"You worry far too much…my lord," the brunette added after giving it a few seconds' thought.

"And you certainly do not treat me as your guardian or with any respect, come to think of it."

"You have my respect sir," Letitia assured him seriously. "Whether you deserve it or not remains to be seen..."

"Little minx," he accused, tossing a napkin at her.

Her husky laugh rang out. "In all seriousness, sir, I am utterly grateful to you and your lessons. I now know more about men's clothing, mannerisms, and gambling than I ever thought I would."

Nevan's conscience twinged at that. "Yes, but do remember to disremember all that after tomorrow, when you're a girl again."

Instead of assuring him on this point, she gave him a command. "Open up."

"Eh?"

Letitia had a cherry tart between her flour-touched fingers. "Don't you wish to try my cooking, sir?"

"No, ma'am, I do not. I told you not to come in here in the first place." With that, he turned his head and began to read the paper. "And I'm not hungry."

But from the corner of his eye, he saw that Letitia was hanging her head dejectedly.

"Yes of course not. It was wrong of me to ask."

Letting out a noise of frustration, Nevan beckoned her back. "Alright, I'll try one. I hope tis not poisoned though."

"Not this batch, sir."

Before he could say anything else, she'd leaned in far closer than he'd anticipated, the scent of cherries and flour hanging about her still.

Letita's palm rested on Nevan's firm, toned arm for a moment before she slipped a tart into his mouth.

And reveled in the change in his expression.

His eyelids shut over his once-frowning eyes and she watched as he slowly chewed on the tart, a small sound of satisfaction escaping him.

"Well?"

She tried to fight back her amusement as he rose, pushed her aside, and attacked the rest of the tarts.

**

Distrustfully, Zain eyed Anne's butler, who was beckoning to him with one finger. After an awkward encounter with Anne's mother, Lord Latham had been on his way out of the white mansion. But the corpulent man was standing near the front door and looked as if he were dying to tell him a secret.

"What is it?"

"Shh, softly sir. I only wished to inform you of something sir."

This did not soften the expression on Zain's face. Lord Latham was normally easygoing, but the Mariners' butler clearly did not like him, so why should he give him the time of day? Or listen to him, for that matter?

"Yes?"

He was curious, that's why.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier, sir, but I had my reasons."

"Apart from your intense dislike for me?'

"Yes, sir, apart from that."

Despite himself, Zain resisted the urge to chuckle. "Well?" he asked more sternly.

"You see, sir, I did not think it proper for you to see Miss Mariner alone, as I have information that she is _lately betrothed_."

The words acted like dark magic. In a trice, Zain's whole body had tensed up and his face had become hard as stone. "It's a lie," he hissed.

"No, sir, I would never lie about such a matter. I _heard_ him, with my own ears sir, ask Miss Mariner if she would '_accept the proposal_.' And it would make a lot of sense if she said yes," the butler said innocently. "Seeing as how their families are so close and all."

"But who! Who was it!" Zain demanded wildly, taking the butler by the collar.

"The Viscount Stafford of course, sir."

**

_Please review!!!_


	7. Seven: Crashing

_It's been a long time coming, but read below for new plot points and the first part of an interesting ball scene!_**  
**

* * *

Letitia received the beautifully cut hunter green coat from Mr. Weston with little to-do.

She marveled at the feel of the velvety cloth in her hands and thanked the tailor more than once, as if he had done her a service she could never repay instead of having just relieved Nevan of a sizeable amount of money.

"Alright, young man, I hope it's to your liking," said Mr. Weston with a fatherly smile. His eyes speculatively looked over this Mr. Oliver once more, again at a loss as to what his mother would do with such a pretty boy. How would she marry him off? Though there was that Shakespeare play about a boy so pretty and charming he did catch the eye of a noblewoman…though if he remembered correctly, it had turned out that the boy was in fact a girl…Weston mentally laughed away the thought.

The Viscount, who had accompanied Mr. Oliver to retrieve the newly-fashioned coat, gave the tailor a brief nod and hastened to escort Letitia out of the shop before she could draw any more curious stares.

"I promise to pay you back every penny for this, sir," Letitia assured him as they made their way back to the carriage.

Not one to mince words, Nevan said: "Yes, well…I'm not precisely sure how you plan to do so, my girl. Boy. Whatever you are."

Letitia's face burned. How useless it was to be a woman, especially in the city. What could she say? Oh, when I marry, I shall give you my husband's money? I'll earn some by playing cards with other fine gentlewomen?

Nevan realized he'd hit a sore spot with his comment. "Letitia, really, don't give it a thought. I want to do this—look after you, that is." She didn't respond, but felt touched at the admission. "It's what my father would have wanted. I'm not exactly in the basket, anyway."

She frowned, but her next comment was unexpected. "You know, you really must teach me all these funny ways you all have of speaking. It's like a new language!" she said, not without admiration.

"Oh." Nevan coughed. "Erm, frankly, I would rather not. You see, it's not exactly proper 'language' and certainly not fit for a lady's ears."

"But_ I_ am Mr. Oliver right now, sir, a university youth _primed_ to use all this thieves' cant," Letitia told him with a grin. "For example, _what_ exactly is a 'bit of muslin'…"

Her guardian was relieved when a sound distracted her from pursuing the question. He was not about to fill her ears with scandalous slang used when referring to "loose women." Alarm spread through him though, when he too caught a flurry of shouts from the street.

Letitia spoke: "...Isn't that your carriage…?"

"Of course it would be," Nevan growled before the two of them ran towards

the scene of pandemonium.

When asked about it afterwards, Jim would maintain that it hadn't been his

fault.

Instead he would blame the lady.

Or, to be more specific, the lady's moonstruck beauty. Along with the lady's flashing

dark eyes and sculpted raven locks and really the most flawless face he had

ever had the misfortune to behold.

Actually, if one of his cohorts had been unintelligent enough to ask him about the incident, he would have cut Jim off here saying he had lost all interest in the matter, as it turned out.

But if one wanted to be even more precise in determining the root of the chaos, one could blame the lady's parents who had had the indecency to pass on such beauty to their child.

That said, it had certainly _not_ been Jim's fault.

The whole scene began to play out when an innocent lace handkerchief floated towards the carriage and dropped in front of the horses. Jim jumped from his seat and bent to pick it up only to rise too quickly and hit his head. On someone else's head.

"Ouch," the other person rang out at the same time as him.

"Sorry miss, I was just..." He suddenly felt as if he'd hit his head a second time when his eyes rose to the owner of the handkerchief. Slightly dizzy, he handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said, with, he had to admit, little warmth in her voice.

Unlike most of those who served the noble class, Jim had never, in their words, truly "learned his place." He had grown up in the Stafford household where he had been treated as another son of the house and had been playmates with Nevan. Thus, although he knew this lady probably regarded him as beneath her, he didn't see that he had anything to lose by saying what he did next.

"May I say, miss: you're the most beautiful female I've ever seen."

Raye Hinston was certainly not used to being addressed in this way. Firstly, no one had ever referred to her as a "female." Second, her admirers usually veiled their praises with lines from Shakespeare or nervously kissed her hand once in a blue moon. To have a man she'd just met simply and sincerely say something so blunt was unprecedented.

"I..."

It was entirely improper. He was probably a stable hand or a coachman. Besides, no one had even formally introduced them.

"My name is Raye Hinston," she found herself saying.

He grinned and his smile seemed to light up everything around him. "Jim Stone," he replied, holding out his hand. Another impropriety. Women did not shake hands, she told herself. This man should have bowed while she curtsied.

She shook his hand.

But the encounter was doomed to end there. As it turns out, whatever the century, it has never been a good idea to stand smack dab in the middle of a busy street. Yet this was just what the oblivious couple had been doing for the past few minutes and inevitably a team of four horses came charging at them.

Swearing, Jim tried to leap out of the way with the lady, but ended up more or less throwing her to the side. This turned out to be another mistake. The lady, arrayed in a morning dress of her favorite cherry red nearly fell on top of Nevan's horse-appropriately named Firecracker.

By the time Letitia and Nevan arrived on the scene the area was a veritable mess of snorting, kicking, charging horses, ripped clothes, a yelling elderly man, and two very embarrassed, harassed-looking, and attractive people.

Letitia did not wait two seconds before leaping onto Firecracker, the most dangerous of the horses.

"L—Mr. Oliver!" Nevan shouted. But she made no response as she swung a leg onto the horse. Nevan was ready to yank her out of the chaos, but within a minute, was astonished to see that she'd been able to soothe Firecracker back to normal. Indeed, no sooner had Nevan approached than the horse had become quiet and gentle as a lamb. Soon enough, Jim found that he hadn't completely lost his head and he and Nevan managed to calm and disentangle the rest of the horses.

Letitia slid off the mare. "Well done," admired both Jim and the elderly man, who had stopped shouting long enough to drop this compliment.

"Grandfather, may we go now?" Raye asked in a dangerous whisper, mortified that her dress had an enormous tear in it. Not to mention that everyone's eyes, clearly amused, were now on her and the men around her.

Jim looked up at "grandfather" in surprise. The yelling man who owned the charging horses had apparently been young Miss Hinston's chaperone.

The stable hand, who was staring at the street now, said, "Miss 'Inston, I'm awfully sorry, I don't know how it got so out of control, I apologize and I'll pay for your dress..."

"Let's go, Grandfather." The icy facade had slipped back into place and the shy, flattered girl disappeared for good. She nodded brusquely at her old suitor Nevan as if to say "of course this would be partly _your _fault" then mounted the carriage.

Grandfather smiled at the crowd. "Good day!" he called, waving as if they were his nearest and dearest friends instead of a motley crew of young people who'd riled up some horses. The carriage disappeared, with Jim the one watching it the most intently. "D'you know her, Nevan?"

Letitia and her guardian exchanged ominous looks.

"Somehow, I don't think that's the right question to be asking right now, Jim."

The young man shrugged. "It's better than: you going to fire me now or after ye've eaten yer supper?"

* * *

Letitia's green eyes traveled back and forth, in time with the pendulum of the grandfather clock that sat in Nevan's foyer, waiting for her guardian to finish his talk with Jim. She was currently arrayed in the lovely article of clothing Mr Weston had made for her. As she sat, she mentally reviewed the rules of whist Nevan had taught her.

Jim and Nevan exited the library at last, the former not at all looking as though he'd just been lectured at. Instead he whistled through his teeth at Letitia.

"My, Master Oliver, cleaning up well, aren't ye now? Shame I haven't seen ye in any skirts, or better yet, rolled-up trousers anymore, eh?"

Letitia was learning to accustom herself to Jim's outrageous flirting and only rolled her eyes.

Nevan however, was not so lenient. "For goodness' sake Jim, when was the last time you...uhm, visited the opera dancers' rooms?" he asked in an undertone so Letitia could not hear.

Jim smiled. "All I can say is, it's been too long Nevan. But since meeting that Miss Hinston..."

The Viscount groaned. "Another word about Miss Hinston, Jim, and I will cast you off without so much as a by-your-leave."

Jim complied on this point at least. "And you Nevs? Any opera dancers or sweet light-of-loves since Mr. Oliver fluttered into your orbit?" he asked mock-thoughtfully.

Letitia masked a cough with a laugh.

Nevan stood abruptly. "I've known her no more than a day, you good-for-nothing."

"And yet accompanying her everywhere, _alone _already." Jim smirked. "Want me to drive you two the club tonight, m'lord, so's I can keep an eye on you?" he added mockingly.

"Only if you lend me your whip and serve as one of the horses," responded the Viscount sweetly.

* * *

The Viscount rode through the night in the open carriage, his ward seated stiffly by his side.

He nudged her. "Anything the matter, brat? Nervous you won't be able to tell a club from a spade?" He smiled down at her warmly.

Letitia shook her head with a responding smile. "No such thing. The thing is..."

"Yes?"

Her words came pouring out all a sudden. "I'm _so_ sorry for embroiling you in all this. I wish my rebellious side hadn't gotten the best of me earlier. It's really not right for you to have to buy me men's clothes or chaperone me to clubs."

Nevan grinned. "Admitting I was right before, eh?"

In spite of the fact that she was doing her utmost to be penitent, Letitia was still unable to tamp down a wish to flick that arrogant smile off his face.

But the Viscount's next words caught her off-guard, as, in a softer voice, he said: "If I were you, I probably would have done the same thing." He hesitated, then slowly admitted: "I would hate to be a woman in London."

She turned to stare straight in front of her, looking right between the horse's ears. "Is it so bad?"

"For a young married woman, no, not so much. You're freer, and don't have to worry about what people may say. You can attend balls and such without your husband, can go riding by yourself in Hyde Park. If you're discreet you can even..." he trailed off, deciding he didn't want to taint her with tales of married women's...affairs.

Guessing what he'd left unsaid, Letitia bit her lip in amusement, but remained silent.

"But for a single woman, society's constantly hounding you from all sides. The older women ask when you'll be married, the older men pseudo-court you, the other women judge all you do, and the men...are men. They love you one evening, and move on the next. But if you arrayed yourself in actual women's clothes, I'm sure that..." He stopped without knowing why.

"That?"

"That you'll find a man to offer for you within a few days," he hurriedly said. "And that's what I'm here for. To find you that man, that is," he said in a tone meant to reassure both her and himself.

It did neither.

Andrew, face wreathed in smiles, greeted the two newcomers at the club entrance. Nevan, frowning slightly, looked about him. "Where are all the carriages?"

"Change in plans, my good man. We are instead off to the ball Kenneth's cousin's having."

"I don't know Kenneth's cousin," Nevan said slowly.

"Nor does Kenneth. Shall we then?" Andrew hopped into the carriage and, still in a daze, the Viscount snapped the horses forward. Andrew's directions turned out to be about as clear as mud so that it took much too long to find the site of this ball. Finally, after a few tempers (all belonging to Nevan) had been lost, they had arrived.

Letitia, intimidated by the attire and expressions people stepping down from the carriages wore, leaned into Nevan and whispered: "Were we even invited?"

The Viscount moved away a little, clearing his throat. "Highly unlikely. After you then?"

Letitia laughed her pleasant husky laugh and entered the mansion.

* * *

Anne Mariner did not enjoy balls. To be even more frank, she did not really enjoy any of the trivialities of high society. Fashion journals, the latest dances, the gossip. She found none of it more than passingly appealing.

Miss Mariner knew it did not reflect well on her that she could never remember the steps to the quadrille. And her friend, Maria, had looked ready to have an apoplexy when Anne admitted that she hadn't the faintest idea what the difference was between a pelisse and a spencer jacket. The fact was, Anne would much rather curl up in a library than shop for either article of clothing, or any article of clothing, if it came to taht.

So she had hoped beyond hope that her mother would not drag her to this whatsitcalled ball hosted by Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So this evening. But that silent wish had fallen upon deaf ears, and here she was now, dressed a lilac Italian crape gown that itched rather dreadfully.

Ladies did not feel itches, though, and heaven forbid they dream of scratching their arms, so Anne sat in her chair, intent on ignoring these unlady-like sensations. She played with her fan and turned her mind back to the predicament Nevan seemed keen on pitching her into. She chose not to linger on the second, more romantic predicament involving Zain. Zain had not made an appearance at this ball, and Anne could not be certain if that relieved or frustrated her even more.

This Oliver girl/boy, though. How curious that she had just decided one day to run off from Norfolk county and find a way out, a new life here in London, without so much as a by your leave. It was most improper and astonishing, yes, but…Anne couldn't help thinking of the idea wistfully. To be able to do exactly what one wanted and ignore the consequences (and her mother). How lovely that would be.

Yes, but, what exactly did Nevan expect _her _to do? She had not had time to discuss the matter with her mother, and Anne was not sure how she would take the news. Oh, mother, by the way I'm having a mysterious girl who dresses as a boy over to stay for an indefinite period of time?

Not to mention this rather preposterous notion that _she_ teach Ms. Oliver how to comport herself and be a true lady of society. Rubbish. She herself wasn't even learned in the ways of a lady yet. Anne seriously wondered if Nevan had been a tad drunk when he'd called on her earlier.

Anne looked up—only to let out a small scream. Because, looking questioningly down upon her was the object of her thoughts: the Viscount Stafford.

Nevan, arms behind his back, arched an eyebrow at Anne's reaction. "I've been trying to get your attention for the past minute," he informed her, not without petulance. "I wonder, Anne, if you should see a doctor about this."

"About what, pray?"

"Well, first, it was earlier today when you couldn't seem to hear what I was saying when I introduced Mr. Oliver. And second—well, right now, when you didn't even see me standing over you! Can you even hear me as we speak? Or are you perhaps only pretending to understand me, even now?"

Anne was grateful when she saw that "Mr. Oliver" shaking her head at her ridiculous guardian and nudging him. "With consistently drunk friends like you, sir, it's a wonder Miss Mariner's sane enough to have a proper conversation."

Nevan shot Letitia a glare for the comment. "Young ladies are _not_ supposed to speak about drunkenness, nor are they supposed to hear about it," he hurried to add, gesturing to Anne.

"What about being exposed to it?" Anne couldn't help commenting mischievously. "Because I'm very sure that the _both_ of us, Nevan, have had to deal with drunkenness in the form of…well, you."

Letitia laughed while Nevan frowned, then tripped off, muttering about inconsiderate females. "I'll get you both some glasses of ratafia, though I'm sure neither of you deserve it."

Letitia took a seat by Anne. "Nice ball," Letitia commented blandly.

"Eh, quite."

"It's my first, actually," Letitia admitted shyly.

Anne turned to look at her in interest. "Really?" She couldn't quite remember a time when she wasn't being forced into these occasions.

The brunette nodded, smoothing her green velvet coat self-consciously. "Truly. The closest we ever had back in Norfolk were our small fairs and house parties. Instead of grand decorations and ornaments—" she gestured to the roses and pink silk hangings draped elegantly about the cavernous ballroom—"our parties were usually restricted to drunk uncles slamming the pianoforte and impromptu horse races." Anne glimpsed a nostalgicl smile on the other girl's face.

"It sounds quite nice and homey."

Letitia attempted to shrug the feeling away. "It could be, yes. But I…couldn't continue with that life-the way my aunt and uncle had plotted it out for me. I didn't want my future to be, well, _dictated_ like that. Not yet, at least."

Anne couldn't help a little sigh in response. She wasn't altogether sure Letitia had come to the right place for avoiding such a fate.

The two girls continued to talk, oblivious to the giggling and rustling skirts—and curious looks—around them. Letita felt a sort of relief, now that she could unburden herself of the secrets and history of her life in Norfolk. Anne, though not the most forthcoming of people, liked the other girl's open friendliness and slowly painted a picture of her own, of a sometimes shuttered, sometimes glittering, life in London.

After carousing and hobnobbing a bit, Nevan did his duty by the two ladies by delivering two glasses of ratafia to them. Anne thanked him meekly and drank it obediently enough, but Letitia's brows came together as she studied the glass of cloudy red liquid.

"Yes, but what is it?"

"Ratafia."

"Rat what?" She held the glass even further from her face, apparently disturbed by the name.

"Ratafia. It's sweet cordial."

Letitia sniffed it. "But what's in it?"

Nevan seemed taken aback by this reasonable question. "What's in it? Well it's…got sugar and…well I don't know, some red concoction…Don't look at me like that! The long and short of it is I actually haven't the faintest idea! Can't abide the stuff myself," he muttered.

To humor him, Letita tried the drink, but coughed immediately. She set her glass on a small table beside their chairs. "On second thought…I think I'd prefer a more manly "concoction."

"Oho, don't think you can start on th—"

"Nevan! Come for a card game!" Andrew interrupted suddenly. "Oh, hallo, Anne!" He greeted her sunnily, then returned to the task at hand. Darien, Andrew and their closest connection to the host, Kenneth, were all prepared for a game of whist, if Nevan would be gracious enough to make a fourth.

"Rather!" Nevan countered boyishly. Andrew caught "Mr." Oliver's eye and slapped a hand to his forehead. "What a blockhead I am! I'm so sorry, Frederick, would you like us to count you in, and we can play another game? Or perhaps you'd like to come share some stronger stuff than that ratafia with us?"

Nevan hurried to reject this invitation before Letitia could open her mouth. "Oh, no, no, Frederick's quite happy to stay here and keep Anne company, aren't you, Freddie?"

Having been given no say in the matter, Letita could only nod. "Good g—er, lad." Nevan's hand came down to clap her on the shoulder and as he did that, he paused to whisper two words in Anne's ear—"Watch her."

Letitia watched indignantly as the two men left, pulled aside a curtain hung in a doorway, and disappeared into a side room for their private card game.


End file.
